A Busy Day: Part I

This is my life, and I make no apologies for it.

This morning I woke up horny. I needed sex. My penis was telling me it needed some stimulation. I wasn't hard, but it wanted to be in a nice piece of ass. But, I wanted to be on the top and the bottom. I don't have any friends that would be willing to screw me then be screwed by me, so I set about the annoying task of finding random men to sleep with.

I went to a random "dating" site. I'm pretty liberal with my acceptance of gay culture, but the sad thing is there is really no such thing as a "gay dating" site. If there's any type of gay dating site online, all it is is a glorified hook-up site, masquerading as something better than it is. So I go to this site and message a couple of guys (tops and bottoms) who look good enough to get into it with. Unfortunately, none of those guys message me back. It's OK, I think. This is a waiting game, and it's only 10 AM on a Saturday. I can wait a little while to get laid.

Then I start getting messages from guys unsolicited. This is my favorite part. The time where I can judge other men. I can judge them based on their looks, their personalities (or at least the personalities they present online in a 500 words or less text box), and their pix. I laugh at the men who are 40+ telling everyone on the website they are DL because they're married and just want a quick screw with a guy. I delete those messages immediately. I'm a man in my 20s. I have some self-respect. I'm not gonna sleep with some guy just because he wants me too. I'm not that desperate yet.

Then there are the fat and ugly guys. I group these guys into the same category, because while I fully realize and understand that they are probably great guys to be around, hang out with, and eventually marry, when I'm looking have a quick sex session, they're not what I'm looking for, and I'm probably not what they're looking for.

Then there are the decent looking guys. The guys I would definitely jump in the sack with without giving a damn about anything. A few of those guys start sending me messages. I check their statistics. (OK good, no one with a waist wider than 34, no one over 35, no one who looks like a car ran into their face...) Then the emails start happening. They are horrible and trashy, but they're a part of life. So I play along. Ultimately, we're both men who just want to get laid with each other. Why make it harder than it has to be?

The conversations look like this:

him: sup?
me: nm, what's goin on? (NOTE: you should never have perfect grammar during these exchanges. It'll only make you seem pretentious. It's also hard to do, because usually you're masturbating with one hand anyway while this is going on)
him: tryna fuck
me: let's make it happen. u top or bttm?
him: top. unlock ya pic.
me: unlocked. how big is your dick?
him: 8
me: damn..nice. where u at?
him: [general street address] u?
me: [generic street address] can't host. can we use ur place? (NOTE: What I have noticed is how great it is to live in a city and be so close to so many gay men. It's easier to get to them, and there are more single men who have living spaces where gay sex can happen. When you live at home with your parents, you can't really bring home a guy, much less bring home a guy just to fuck him and send him home.)
him: o aright...my place kewl.
me: when u wanna meet?
him: don't matta
me: now?
him: kewl.
me: what's ur address?

I am not proud of the part I played in that conversation (the conversation was almost directly copied and pasted, except the city intersections were deleted), but I wanted sex. I'm not going to waste time when I'm horny. He gave me his address and phone number after that last question, so I decided to walk over to his place, which was only about ten blocks away. I get there, walk in, and walk up to his apartment.

By this point, whenever I meet someone new I'm a little bit nervous. I wonder, "Will this guy be cool? Will he be a good fuck? Will he be creepy? Why did I agree to do this? I should just meet guys at a club or something? I hope he doesn't look completely different from his pictures..." Not too many thoughts have a chance to fly through my brain, because he answers the door quickly. He lives in a small loft with a bathroom built in. And he's pretty cute. I knew he was going to be shorter than me, which is fine, as long as his dick is sizable, which by his pictures and 8 inch description seemed more than adequate. But he seemed to short. But he was built. He was only wearing a pair of athletic pants. No shirt. Well defined arm muscles. A perfect six-pack, and an interesting tattoo below his belly button that looked a lot like a tramp stamp, just on the front. I wasn't going to judge.

"How's it going?" I ask.

"Good. Here, let me just get the stuff." He goes over to his chest of drawers and grabs his lube and a condom. I take this as a sign I should probably take off my coat, so I do and put it on the edge of the couch. He tells me to hang it on his desk chair. While I'm moving my jacket he skirts past me and moves towards the couch. When I turn my back towards the couch he has already pulled his dick out. I still don't know his name, and if he is all business like this, I think, then what's the point in knowing his name? I bend down and start sucking him off.

I know I'm good at blow jobs. It's like the work I do. I just know I'm good at it. He's apparently really horny too, because after not even five minutes he takes the condom, puts it on, and we move to the floor.

A Steve Martin movie is playing on the TV in the background. The guy is not into sensual sex. He is into the kind of sex that gets him off. I'm OK with that. I just needed a dick in my hole, so I'm letting it happen. But, I can't keep from giving all of my focus to the Steve Martin and Queen Latifah movie playing in the background. A man is having sex with me, and while it feels great, I'm more interested in Steve Martin trying to pretend to make love to a statue. "Is there something wrong with me?" I think. "Should I find a man who I really want to have sex with?" I know the answer. The answer is yes. But I still haven't found him. And, until I do, I have to satisfy myself with random internet hookups. It's not the best, but it does the trick.

We switch positions and I can no longer see the TV. He is also using my face as a hand hold. Maybe he doesn't want to see me face? Maybe he cares more about the feelings in his penis than my emotions. It's probably the former. I'm OK if it's the latter, too. He kept going until he came. He pulled out, ripped the condom off and came on my ass and lower back. Then he fell onto my back for a few intimate moments before he stood up. He went to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, moistened it, and came back swabbing himself off. He bent down and wiped me off too. He gave me the towel to take care of my own personal areas. I did.

I started dressing and so did he. As I was about to leave the room he said, "Yo, hit me up. That was great."

"Sure," I say as I open the door. I smile a little because I wasn't sure he was even into me for any of the time we were having sex. I must have done something right. Or maybe I was just willing enough to be his fuck toy that it didn't matter what I looked like.

Instead of taking the elevator, I walked all the way down the seven flights of stairs, contemplating the feeling of post-coitus. It felt amazing. After reflecting on a job well done, I shifted my thoughts to the next item on the agenda. Fucking someone. It was great to get dicked down, but now I needed to dick someone down. As I walked down the rainy streets I wondered if I would even be able to find a guy who would be willing to have me fuck him. I hoped I would.